Sometimes I confuse
my brain with a heaping
pile of rose tinted
mashed potatoes

If only I weren't so
hungry all the time

I'd be fine, doused
in a fair kind of life

where everything green
on either side of the picket
line

has a fresh, polished
emerald shine

Sometimes I don't want
to wake up and do
anything,--

well except

for rubbing my eyes
till they turn
red to prevent
them from leaking.

20 minutes before midnight
strikes, the heart is racing
for it's dear life

you're standing on the side
of the road
watching me
run away from my
problems

The rats cling to the
streets, their bellies
full of spite
for the uprights

A shadow takes in
all the detail
from outside
the light

Holy, as it were

Holy, as it shall be
forevermore

My head
rests on the desk;

I pretend it's the *****
of my lover;

and I weep,
and weep,
and weep,

until the
scar riddled wolf

is ready to eat.

Barefooted, ragged, with neglected hair, she was a thin slip of a girl, like a new moon
Head hung like a dying flower
She gave herself with open palms
Yet every sorrow and distress found her like flourishing weeds
There was no one I admired and hated more
The way they peeled her to the core
And she revealed she had more seeds to grow
Never was she afraid to show
The unchanging depths of her heart
Worth its weight in gold

Clumsy dismount
  down from the scrutiny of
  cross cut shredder victimisation
A shamefaced, self-actualising whingebag
  My name is Daughter
  My name is Employee
  My name is Passenger. Payee.
Belonging at an irreduceable remove from
  A heart, childishly pasted
  in a carapace of postage stamps.
  Once kept in albums of purposeful art.
  The role is guilt ridden recipient
  more often than sender.
Reassembly will be
  an inexpert labour of love
  But not that kind, amigo
  But not that kind
  I'm to be my own pet.
I can see that once I was off
  I was always off.
  All of us who have lived
  this close to the end of England
  are forever leaving the sea
I am leaving the sea
  and everything i've ever dumped in it
  Cold chips. Warm eyes, busted loves
  It's all now bound behind me.
  For the continent For the sea.
Weeping now
  and fielding concerned looks
  not for me but for the balance
  I'm so relieved
I'm so free I could bite something hard
  and break my teeth.

I lied about so much and in such a shortspace of
time that I should probably begin

with the   circumstances of my birth.

There were three grainy    home movies in existence

that captured the

unbelievable    incident on camera.

A soft mewling sound was found to be issuing
from the manger
                                                              at the centre
                                                         of a school nativity play.

So that's me, then. The baby-saviour whose sudden

appearance was not recognised as a miracle by the State.

My origins are disputed and there are

some schools of thought       that consider me prop-made-flesh.

Others are rooted in more digestibly Anglican ways of thinking;

degenerates made me,                                    degenerates left me.

god he saved me how about that?

I remember my home phone number
                  from a house we left when I was 5 years old,

but there's sadly a decent chance I can't remember your name.

you finish your drink in a vicious way,
                                          as if you hate it.

Everything is chance. We name the random to create the idea of order and predictability. It's a stab in the abyss.

What is choice? Plinko. Go, pick the arbitrary with stars in your eyes. What you want is only an arm's-length away. Scratch the ticket. Feel the neon in the night wheel like time is in your corner. Let it hurt you. Learn.

the tree limb
crawls up and out
tangent into
the stuttering cool air

I sleep so. *******. much. It's pathetic, really. I've many theories as to why: I'm lazy; I'm not being challenged enough; society is, well, society; I'm a misanthrope; I'm a dreamer.. But, in the end, these all miss the mark.

The impetus behind my sleepmoresleep is, it seems, a direct result of that sentimental urge to bring order to a cosmic court whose very fabric is made of change and chance.

buds waiting
limbs feeling, again
slumber shook off
but this tilt too will end
and bring the wilt back

Start again. Turn the page. We love our metaphors. Why? Because they remind us of the flux. Things won't stay still. Ever. Dictionaries breathe too you know. New glyphs itch to get in.

Let them.

rosette of jag leaf rawr
bright yellow flower
head of seed and
a mane of downy tuft
reaching through
neglected suburb
concrete sidewalks

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.